


Highly Improbable, But Entirely Possible

by sherlockedbbc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Gen, Hugging, Johnlock - Freeform, Sweet Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:16:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 11,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockedbbc/pseuds/sherlockedbbc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach...can Sherlock come back and win John's love in time before the wedding with Mary? Or will Sherlock have to live the rest of his life without the one person he loves the most?</p><p>Fluff as usual, cute cuddling, and comforting. <3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> I know series three is over...but writing post-Reichenbach fics is just too fun! :) Plus I started this one before series three aired so it counts. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! <3 Follow me on instagram @sherlockedbbc if you want. :)

It’s been three years. There have been times when John catches fleeting glimpses of him, but when he looks closer, no one is there. John tells himself his imagination is running away, but still every time after he realizes he’s not coming back—ever—his shoulders slump and his vision mists over with unshed tears. There are days when John cannot even get out of bed, the world too much to bear. Sometimes when he makes tea he accidently makes two cups, one with only milk, and the other with no milk and two spoonfuls of sugar, and when he takes them to the living room, there is no one waiting for him. He often catches himself talking aloud, but when he turns his head, there is no one to reply to him.

Sleep often evades him, as much as John wishes for it. He craves for it not for his own rest, but because it is only through his dreams that he is able to convince himself his best friend is still alive. Sometimes, during the day, a happy memory surfaces and slips into his mind, but its joy instantly fades away after John realizes that he is gone.

He cannot bear to move out of the flat, but he cannot bear to stay in it. Everything holds a memory of him. So instead, John takes to walking in the park, sitting on the benches wishing and longing. Sometimes he thinks of visiting the grave, but he is afraid of breaking down and flooding with tears. 

It takes him two years to move on, two years to bury his feelings. He is nobody—nobody—without Sherlock Holmes, but John knows that he must eventually snap out of it. He is a soldier. No, he is a doctor. He is supposed to heal, but he cannot even heal his own heart. 

Those two years are lonely, sad times for him. Everyone has forgotten him, except for Mrs. Hudson and a few calls from Lestrade. He hasn’t had a girlfriend for ages. When he does return to the dating world, it is more because he desires comfort and care than anything else. 

He meets and dates several women before meeting Mary. Mary, the girl with the dark, curly hair, the girl with the sparkling green eyes, the girl who helped John discover that life was worth living after all. Mary towers over him—she is significantly taller than him. Her brain is as sharp as her tongue.

John cannot ignore the fact that she has an uncanny likeness to his old flatmate. He cannot even convince himself that he loves her for who she is, not for who she resembles. He knows that Sherlock is dead—gone, out of his life—but somehow Mary manages to remind him of his best friend in the best way possible. 

He is happy, finally. Yes, there are days when John wakes up in the middle of the night, sweating, after dreaming of Sherlock falling, falling, falling, and John isn’t there to catch him. But John can’t ignore the fact that he wants the move on, and he wants to live life. He knows that he will never, ever, forget Sherlock Holmes, but he wants to feel happy again. He wants to feel glad at the little things.

He asks Mary to marry him, after several months of dating. She reaches up, kisses him, and whispers her affirmative reply, and as they embrace and kiss, all John can think is _I’m sorry, Sherlock. I am. But I have to do this_.

They plan to have their wedding in the winter, when London is blanketed in a fine snow. Mary wants to be married outside, in the beautiful snow, and John readily consents. 

It is John’s idea for the two of them to find a nice house by the countryside, where their children can roam free. It means leaving 221B Baker Street, which is both heartbreaking and liberating for John. The place whispers and cries for Sherlock. It means leaving Mrs. Hudson, but John is ready to start his new life.

One night, the day before the wedding, John is walking along the streets of London, his breath fogging in the cloudy, freezing air, when he realizes that somebody else’s footsteps are crunching in the snow behind him. He stops, turns, but is puzzled when no one is there. The person’s footprints are clearly imprinted in the snow behind his own, and John glances uneasily into the shadows. 

He freezes when he hears movement. And slowly, somebody steps out from behind a lamppost, the warm yellow light spilling on dark curls and illuminating prominent cheekbones. 

John feels his legs give way as brilliant, brilliant emerald green eyes meet his own. 

“John.” The word is spoken, low and hushed. It is the sound of regret, the sound of guilt. It is the sound that John has not heard for three long, long years, the sound he has only heard in his dreams. 

Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Alive. 

And before he knows what he is doing, before he can stop to calm himself, John is running, running away. He is running away from the past, running away from the buried part of his life. He sprints desperately, streetlights and stoplights blurring, and somehow his instincts carry him home. To Baker Street.

John rushes up the stairs to his room, slams the door, and crashes onto his bed, crying uncontrollably. Every emotion he hid inside his heart comes flooding, pouring, out, and John is racked with sobs.

He tenses when he hears the door slam and hears that familiar tread on the floor, listening as the footsteps pause right at his door. 

The door is slowly opened, gently and hesitantly. The hall light casts its gentle glow on Sherlock, and it takes every effort in John’s body to look at his face, to admit that he is alive, to let out his old life from where he had hidden it in his heart.

Are those tears glistening on Sherlock’s face? Are those globes of sorrow running down Sherlock’s face forming because Sherlock realizes how much pain he has caused John, or because Sherlock is afraid of what John might do?

Every feeling in the world crashes over John, overwhelming him. Love, anger, fear, guilt, dread. His heart is being tortured into a battle that John does not want to have to fight—whether he can accept Sherlock in his life again, like old times, or whether he can move on and continue the life he has paved for himself. 

Sherlock moves one step closer, and before John can stop himself, he is crossing the room and punching Sherlock in the face. It’s hard enough to make Sherlock cry out, perhaps more in surprise than in hurt. 

John’s eyes widen as he realizes what he has done, but his throat is thick and his voice fails him.

Sherlock speaks for him. “I’m sorry, John. I really am.” His voice is deep and indistinct with tears, and Sherlock sags against the door, beaten.

It takes John a few seconds to find his voice. “You tricked me.”

Sherlock refuses to meet his eyes. “It was for you, John, it really was.”

“How?”

Sherlock sighs and runs his fingers through his curls. “Moriarty. Who else? I did it to—to protect you.”

“You—you—” John stops, his eyes wet, struggling to find words to express what he is feeling.

“I know, I know, John.” Sherlock’s voice is ragged, frantic, anxious. “I owe you a thousand apologies. I—I need you.”

John shakes his head, slowly, thinking. “I spent three years of my life waiting for you. You’re too late, Sherlock. Too late.”

Sherlock watches, his eyes darkening with sorrow, as John walks away, out of the door, out of his life. Sherlock collapses against the door, weeping quietly, knowing that his chances of ever convincing John to turn around, to come back to him, are none.


	2. Indecision

Mary hears the door of her flat slam. “John, is that you?” she calls. She walks to the front door, eager to see her fiancé. 

Her smile quickly fades as she realizes that something is wrong—John is pale, far too pale, and his eyes have a look in them that he normally is so careful to hide. They are stricken, troubled, suffering. 

“John?” she whispers, hesitantly. 

“He’s back,” is all that he can choke out, and before he can crumple onto the floor, Mary is there to hold him in her embrace, stroking his back comfortingly. Although she has no idea what he is talking about, she knows that she has to help him somehow. In whatever way she can. 

They’ve been together three months now. Mary instantly fell in love with kind, caring John, but there are times when he doesn’t think she’s looking that Mary sees something deep in his blue eyes. There are times when his laughter is forced and his smiles unnatural. Mary is quick to ignore them, pretend that they aren’t there, to reach out and kiss him, trying to kiss away his sorrow.

And now, Mary realizes how little she knows of John’s past. He doesn’t talk about it, and Mary doesn’t push it. It is something she regrets now, because she instinctively knows that something from John’s past is upsetting him. 

She pulls away from their embrace, leading John to the couch.

“What happened, John?” 

“Sherlock—Sherlock Holmes. Is Alive.” John shudders and Mary can see the effort it is taking him to hold back tears. 

Sherlock Holmes. The name is vaguely familiar to Mary—and then suddenly, it all comes rushing back. The newspapers. The headlines. 

She has no idea of the connection between the two men, but she does know that somehow the return of Sherlock Holmes is hurting John. 

And suddenly, Mary feels terror wash over her. This man, this man who was supposed to be dead, is alive. And he is someone that John obviously cares very   
much about. 

The sound of John’s broken, wavering voice interrupts her thoughts. “I don’t know how, but he’s alive.”

Mary reaches for his hands and whispers, “Why does that upset you so much?”

And, in a quiet, faltering voice, John tells her everything about his life before her. About the adrenaline rushes, the pursuits, the chases, the danger, the threats. He tells her about his life as a friend of a consulting detective, the only one in the world. He tells her about gunshots at two in the morning, about bloody body parts in the fridge, about explosions and bombs. But he also tells her of the excitement, of the fact that he was the only one who could call Sherlock an idiot and get away with it. He talks about saving people, helping them, and outsmarting criminals. He shows her his blog, of the progression of his posts and how sad and lonely he was before meeting Sherlock. 

Mary listens quietly, never once interrupting. But there is a change in John that she cannot ignore. His eyes shine brighter, his voice becomes more animated, and his whole posture changes, as he relates his experiences. She realizes how happy John was, how much Sherlock meant to him, and how much the fake suicide of his best friend killed him. 

When John finishes speaking, she shakes her head and whispers, “You had the best life, John.”

“I did.” John looks away, a faint smile on his lips. 

“But you can’t live two lives.”

With these quiet, sure words, John looks up sharply, and Mary knows that this has already crossed his mind. She reads in his eyes indecision and regret. 

John looks down at Mary’s slender hand clasped in his, and sees the diamond ring glimmering there. Mary’s gaze follows his. 

“Our wedding—it’s tomorrow.”

Mary nods.

“And I have to decide.”

“Do you love me?”

John looks startled at the unexpected question but readily says, “Yes.”

“Are you willing to trade a life full of excitement for a life with me?” She asks this softly, her green eyes gazing at him.

It takes him a heartbeat longer to answer, and Mary knows what she must do.

“I love you, Mary,” says John, his eyes darkening.

“Maybe you love me, but you love him more, John,” replies Mary softly. “You do. You just haven’t admitted it yet. I don’t want to stand in the way. I want you to be happy, as happy as you possibly can be. I’m giving this to you, John. I’m giving you your life with Sherlock Holmes.”

John draws in a breath and exhales it, quivering. When he speaks, his words are shaky and his tears are threatening to form at his eyes, but his words are resolute and sure.

“No, Mary,” he says quietly. “He can’t come back after three years, expecting me to return to him, expecting me to put aside my new life for him. I’m marrying you tomorrow, I swear it, I will.”

She glances at him. “But you’ll spend the rest of your life regretting this moment. John—you need to think this over. But until you decide, the wedding should stay on. I just want you to know, whatever you decide, I’ll be happy for you.”

She stands and walks to her bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind her. 

And the only thing John can do is leave and return to his flat, watching this life he has spent so long constructing break into a million pieces.


	3. Comfort

Mycroft turns at the slam of a door behind him, and finds someone standing in the doorway. 

Can that crying, weeping man be Sherlock? His face is haggard, his eyes distraught and frantic, and seeing his brother in such a way is so startling to Mycroft that it takes him awhile to regain his composure, pointing at the couch in his office.

Sherlock sits, and after some hesitation, Mycroft sits next to him. 

“I take it did not go well, then?” Mycroft asks calmly.

Sherlock turns to him with a piercing, glaring stare. 

Mycroft sighs. “I warned you, Sherlock, I warned you a thousand times. I told you that he was finally allowing himself to be happy. You should have listened.”

“You have to help me fix this!” Sherlock cries.

Mycroft shakes his head. “I’m afraid that nothing can be done at present, Sherlock. It’s up to John now. He’s at Mary’s flat right now, talking to her.”

“Mycroft, the wedding is _tomorrow_ ,” whispers Sherlock. “I had to find him, speak to him, and convince him to change his plans. I need him, Mycroft. I never thought he would ever consider not accepting me back into his life.”

“I know that. But you must not forget how many emotional scars you have dealt him. You watched him, against my better judgment. He is a soldier, accustomed to losing his best friends, but somehow losing you hurt him more than anything else could.”

Sherlock looks at him with a raw, pained stare. “Mycroft,” he sobs, his voice breaking, “I’m nothing without that man.”

His brother feels a sudden urge to comfort and protect him, something he has not felt in years. He wraps his arms around his brother and holds him, awkwardly (seriously, when was the last time Mycroft hugged someone?). Sherlock shudders at his touch and continues to cry silently, warm tears rolling down his cheeks. 

“I need to speak to him,” whispers Sherlock.

“No,” says Mycroft. “Leave John alone for now. He needs to be alone to think—to decide. Don’t go back to the flat.”

Sherlock sags in defeat because he knows Mycroft is right. He stands up, trembling, and turns to leave.

“Sherlock,” calls Mycroft, cautiously. Sherlock stops and looks at him. “If there’s anything you need—anything at all…I’ll be here.”

Sherlock nods and disappears out the door.


	4. Dreamless

John arrives at the flat, grateful that Sherlock isn’t here. He fixes himself a cup of tea and takes it to his bedroom.

He can still smell faint traces of Sherlock’s expensive cologne, the kind he always wore, even from the first day John met him. The smell is haunting, lingering, and 

John breathes in the scent that reminds him that Sherlock is alive. Alive.

He sits the edge of his bed and puts his head in his hand, torn between the two sides of a decision he knows he has to make. 

He thinks about what Mary said—that he loves Sherlock. Does he? John doesn’t know. He does have a need to protect Sherlock for all that he is, and he knows that he would kill a man to save his life without hesitating. Does that count as love?

His relationship with Mary is entirely different. He loves her like he has loved every other single girlfriend in his life—a normal love, one that is familiar to John. He knows what to expect with her; he is in charge. He thinks about the possibility of raising a family with her, and the thought of caring for the children he has wanted for so long.

He loves both lives. But he must choose. Between danger and safety. Between Sherlock and Mary.

_John. I’m sorry. ___John gasps as the words filter through his mind, and suddenly, he is reliving his memories, hearing Sherlock’s words echo in his brain.

_It’s just a magic trick. I’m sorry. I owe you a thousand apologies. I need you. I’d be lost without my blogger. You are amazing. Goodbye, John._

He buries his head in his pillow and closes his eyes as he remembers Sherlock crying on the rooftop of St. Bart’s, remembers Sherlock jumping and falling, falling, falling, until he hit the ground with a sickening thud. 

__I did it to protect you._ _

_“ _Did you really, Sherlock?_ ” thinks John. “ _You could have told me it wasn’t real._ ”_

__It’s just a magic trick.__

“ _He did tell me_ ,” realizes John. “ _I just didn’t let myself hope and believe in him._ ” 

But, still. Even if Sherlock had warned him, albeit in a too subtle way, John could not ignore the fact that letting Sherlock back into his life would reopen every single scar of the past three years—and it would mean letting go of this new life he had spent so long trying to build. 

What Sherlock had done was forgivable, yes, but John isn’t sure whether he is ready to forgive him. On the other hand, Mary has done nothing wrong, and he can’t hurt her. He knows that whatever decision he makes, Mary will understand, but John knows deep down, Mary wants him. 

He has until tomorrow morning to decide. 

John spends the rest of the night awake, the sweet comfort of dreamy sleep evading him. He needs to follow his heart, but he doesn’t understand what it is trying to tell him. 


	5. Technicalities

Sherlock pauses at the door of 221B, listening for any sounds of John. Nothing. Relieved, Sherlock pushes the door open and breathes in the sweet, familiar smell of the flat, sighing. He has not been here in three years, yet everything is the same. His chair is in the same place, the skull still sits on the mantelpiece, and his books are still on the shelves. Sentiment.

He always thought he was immune to it, but seeing how loyal John was—he hadn’t changed a thing about the flat, presumably because it reminds him of Sherlock—brings a few tears to his eyes. No one has cared about him in such a way before. 

He passes the kitchen, noting that the dining table, for once, is clear of any clutter. He is headed for his old room, which he knows has been kept the same because he knows that John wouldn’t change it. 

He freezes because he realizes that John is still here. In the flat. The door of his bedroom is closed, and through it Sherlock can hear quiet snores. He is still asleep because—Sherlock checks his watch—it’s only 7 A.M. John had never been one to wake up early, except when Sherlock had a case. 

Sherlock silently opens the door of John’s bedroom and looks at his old flatmate. His face is tired and the effects of last night are written in the dark circles beneath his eyes. Sherlock can tell that he spent a sleepless night, thinking. Sherlock’s face softens at the sight of John, helpless and vulnerable.

Sherlock closes the door and decides to leave the flat. There’s no telling when John will wake up and Sherlock does not wish to be there when he does. He is supposed to leave John alone—Mycroft’s instructions—and for once in his life, he agrees with his brother. 

\---

When John wakes up, the sun is already shining through his window, and he knows it’s late. He must have fallen asleep sometime during the night. His eyes are gritty and he feels bleary from the lack of sleep, but John sighs, knowing that he must find Mary and talk to her. 

“You haven’t decided yet?” exclaims Mary, the first thing out of her mouth when she sees John at her door. She can read it all over his face. “For God’s sake, John, it’s not that hard of a decision.”

John glances at her sharply. “Yeah, well, you would find it hard, too, choosing between two people you care the most about.”

Mary softens. “I’m sorry, John,” she whispers, leaning her head against the doorway. “I’ve just had the most awful night—”

“Me, too.”

She sighs. “Come in, I’ll make us a cup of tea.”

“That’d be lovely.” John follows her into her flat.

They sit for a while at the table, silently, each cradling their cups. 

“It must be a big decision,” Mary says, finally breaking the silence.

John glances at her. “Yes. But, as you said, until I decide, the wedding is still on. So let’s go over our plans for today.”

Mary looks at him in surprise. “You mean, you’ll just carry on with our wedding even though you’re still torn between the two options?”

“Yeah.” 

“Um, well, we’ve got rehearsal after lunch at 1 o’clock. We’re just going to run through the whole thing once,” says Mary, recovering from her initial astonishment.

“Sounds great,” replies John, but his heart isn’t in it. 

Mary is holding on to a small, tiny hope that John will choose her. She is, like any human being, a little bit selfish and she knows what she wants. She wants John. She loves him. She wants to be with him for the rest of her life. And if John is going to go along with the wedding until he decides, well, Mary isn’t going to question that. 

But deep down, Mary knows he isn’t going to choose her. She can step aside and save John the terrible task of having to decide, but she wants him to figure out for himself what he wants. In some ways, Mary understands John better than he understands herself.


	6. Pre-wedding

John turns his coat collar up against the blustery, cold London day and eyes the sky, which threatens to snow. It’s almost 1, and John is headed to meet Mary, her bridesmaids, and their pastor in preparation for the wedding. The wedding is to take place at Lauriston Gardens that evening.

“Hi, John.” He turns and sees Mary standing beside him, smiling shyly. 

“Hi, Mary.” She loops her arm through his. 

“Are you sure about this, John?” she asks him, looking him in the eye.

“No,” he answers, honestly. “But I’m not sure of anything anymore, except that I love you.”

Her reply is so quiet he almost doesn’t catch it, but it sounds like she says, “You love him, too.”

He sighs and knows she is right, but there is nothing he can do until he decides. The wedding is in almost six hours, and he hasn’t chosen between the two yet. 

\---

It’s a little while later, and John and Mary are almost done wrapping up the preparations for their wedding. They’re standing beneath the wedding arch, going over with their pastor what will happen during the ceremony when John glances over to his left and inhales sharply. 

_He’s here._

Sherlock, partially hidden behind an oak tree, is watching him quietly. He is close enough for John to see that there are tears on his cheek, but not close enough that he can hear what John is saying. His emerald eyes are dim and sad. He is watching John and Mary silently, watching his best friend prepare to let that woman into his life. Forever.

 _He didn’t choose me_ is the only thing Sherlock can think. _He didn’t choose me_. John makes eye contact with him and for a split second, John is struck by how much pain and sorrow and regret are in those brilliant green irises. 

_I can’t live without him._

“I’m sorry,” John says suddenly, turning to Mary. “I—I can’t do this.” He takes hold of Mary’s hands and looks into her eyes, those eyes that are green and sparkling. 

But they aren’t Sherlock’s eyes. “I thought I could do this, but I need Sherlock Holmes. I can’t live without him.”

Mary nods, but there are traces of anger and impatience in her eyes. She lets go of his hands and turns away, trying to hide the tears in her eyes.

John watches her go, guilt wrenching at his heart, but he feels strangely carefree and happy. He has made the right decision.

The sun peeks out from behind the cover of clouds and looking up, John can see a bit of blue sky, as he walks to his best colleague, his flatmate, his best friend. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.

“Sherlock.”

He looks up, and gazes into John’s light blue eyes, which are serenely calm and kind.

Before he can even begin to process what is happening, John is wrapping his arms around him tightly, and he is pulled into a warm embrace. He is momentarily dumbstruck, and it takes him a few seconds to lightly circle his arms around him in return. 

They stand like that for a while, in the warm sunlight, neither of them speaking. 

Until John whispers quietly, “Let’s go home.”


	7. Understanding

They arrive at their flat, and as they open the door, John quietly reaches for Sherlock’s hand. Home.

This is the place that Sherlock has haunted in John’s imagination. John needs to feel Sherlock, feel his warmth, have his strength and life by his side, as he enters the flat.

Sherlock stays silent, allowing John to take the time he needs. Happiness is breaking over him in waves, and he is smiling quietly, a few tears in his eyes.

_John chose me._

Finally John enters the flat, and he goes into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. When it is done brewing, he brings two cups over to Sherlock, who is sitting on the sofa, watching him.

_For once, for once, there is somebody waiting here for me,_ John thinks. He remembers all those times he made two cups of tea, on accident, those days when he heard Sherlock’s voice only in his dreams. 

Sherlock murmurs, “Thank you,” and cradles the cup in his hands.

“You’re welcome.”

Sherlock turns to him, gazing deep into his blue eyes. “John—I—thank you. For…everything. I have a thousand things to explain, but I just want to say—thank you for letting me into your life.” His voice becomes quieter. “I know how much of a decision that was for you.”

John nods, once. “Sherlock, I’ve been hoping and praying and believing in you for the last three years, hoping that you’d still be alive, praying that you’d come back to me. I never thought my dreams would actually come true.” His voice breaks. “I needed you so much.”

“As did I.” 

“You did it to protect me?” asks John.

Sherlock sighs. “Yes. You never learned what happened on the rooftop of St. Bart’s, did you?”

John shakes his head.

“Moriarty had snipers posted where all my friends were. One for you, one for Mrs. Hudson, et cetera. He threatened to kill you unless I committed suicide. I told him that I could destroy Richard Brook and bring back Moriarty, at which point he told me I was a doofus and ordinary. He committed suicide.”

“What?!” John looks up, startled. “He committed suicide? Why?”

Sherlock exhales. “Apparently, I was the only thing that was any match for him, and when he discovered that I was ‘ordinary,’ he felt there was no reason for him to live anymore. He shot himself.”

“How come nobody found his body?”

“Molly. And Mycroft.” 

John rolls his eyes. “Of course. And I assume both of them had something to do with your ‘death’?” 

“Precisely.”

John shakes his head. “What have you been doing these last three years?”

“Chasing down the rest of Moriarty’s criminal circle under a fake name, with the help of Mycroft,” replies Sherlock. “Conducting more scientific experiments.” His voice lowers. “Missing you.”

John is touched, and he reaches for Sherlock’s hand. “I missed you, too,” he whispers.

Sherlock shudders. “I felt so alone without you, I couldn’t help but see you sometimes. Mycroft warned against it, but I ignored him. I often watched you, in disguise, of course.”

“I knew it!” John exclaims. “I saw you, Sherlock—I saw you. But every time I looked closer, you were gone.”

“I had to be careful, of course,” explains Sherlock. “If you had any idea that I was still alive, if you suddenly changed your attitude, Moriarty’s men  
would have caught on and killed you. They had spies posted, watching you.”

“Have you revealed yourself to anyone else, then?” John asks.

“No. Not even Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade. Although, I have been walking around in this,” he points down to his dark coat and blue scarf, “but people these days are impossibly blind.”

John laughs. “You should at least tell Mrs. Hudson you’re back.”

Sherlock’s gaze softens. “Not yet. I want to spend my first day back with—you.”

John turns pink and hides his face by taking a sip of tea. 

They are silent for a while.

“John,” Sherlock says suddenly, “I love you.”

John smiles and reaches up to press a light kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “I love you, too,” he whispers back.

They reach for each other’s hand and sit there, together, warm in the comfortable silence.


	8. Confessions

“So…Mary,” says Sherlock.

John sighs, because he has been expecting this for a while. “Yes. The girl I almost married.”

Sherlock grins slyly up at him. “She looks like me, doesn’t she?”

John blushes. “Yes…she does.”

Sherlock moves closer to John, resting his head on his shoulder. “You loved her,” he whispers.

“I still do.”

“Yet you left her…for me,” says Sherlock, in awe.

John runs his fingers through his hair. “She didn’t deserve what I did, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t imagine life without you, and I couldn’t just shut you out of my life, pretending you didn’t exist.”

“You could have visited me, and still worked with me.”

“It wouldn’t have worked.”

Sherlock hums in agreement. 

“Maybe, and most likely, Mary was just a replacement for you, Sherlock,” John murmurs. “I missed you. She reminded me of you. And not just in looks. She was smart—of course, not as smart as you—and she was quick to say the first thing that crossed her mind.” He rests his head against Sherlock’s curls.

“Is she mad at you?”

“Yes,” whispers John. “I need to call her, talk to her. But it can wait.” He pauses. “What would have happened if I had chosen her over you?”

“I would have removed myself from any emotion and disappeared, out of your life. I wouldn’t be able to stay in London, knowing that you were here.”

“But you love London,” John says softly.

Sherlock shrugs. “I wouldn’t be able to live in London without having you with me.” 

“So what do we do now?” asks John.

“Go back to our old life as much as we can,” replies Sherlock. “But I think a lot of things will be different.”

“I love you,” whispers John.

Sherlock smiles briefly. “You know, you’re the first person to love me.”

“I’m glad for that.”

“What is our relationship labeled as, anyways?” asks John.

“I don’t know. But whatever this is, it feels…right. It doesn’t need labels.”

John kisses him lightly on his head. 

“You’re right, as always.” 

They are quiet for a while.

“Sherlock,” asks John, “why do you call yourself a sociopath?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It makes it easier for people to understand why I don’t show them any emotion.”

“But you are capable of showing emotion,” John says.

“I am. But I dislike showing people who I really am.”

“You show me,” John whispers.

“You’re special.” Sherlock smiles. “You’ve always been special—different—for me. You changed me, John, you really have. You brought out the best in me.” 

“It was always there,” says John softly. “I just helped you find it.”

“John, I think it’s safe to say that in the past I’ve been a terrible flatmate.” Sherlock smiles ruefully. “I promise that I’ll try to be better.”

John laughs. “No more bloody body parts in the fridge?”

Sherlock hesitates. “Well…”

John puts on a mock face of horror. “How about if we get you a separate refrigerator?”

“That would be acceptable.”

“Promise me one thing, Sherlock,” whispers John.

“Anything.” 

“Promise me you’ll never leave me again.”

Sherlock shuts his eyes and when he opens them again, there is raw pain deep inside his green eyes. “Never again, John. I promise.”

John smiles sweetly. “I love you.”

“I can’t risk losing our friendship again, John. It means too much to me.”

John hugs him lightly. “You won’t ever lose this.”


	9. Dinner

John looks down at Sherlock, who is lying with his head on John’s shoulder, and gives him a smile. He kisses the top of Sherlock’s head and asks, “Hungry?”

“Starved.”

John laces his fingers through Sherlock’s and leads him into the kitchen, thinking some pasta will be great. He pulls a box of linguini out of a cabinet, and without him asking, Sherlock reaches up into another cabinet and takes out spaghetti sauce. 

They stand in the kitchen together, watching the pasta, and are silent for a while. John hums under his breath and Sherlock looks fondly at him. 

The pasta is ready quickly, and John ladles it out into two plates and takes it to the dining table, along with a bottle of wine and some wine glasses. He turns around and sees Sherlock rummaging about in the cupboard, and when Sherlock meets him at the table he can see that he is holding candles and a lighter.

“Not your date,” chuckles John. 

Sherlock laughs. “This time you are.”

John gets a faraway look on his face as he recalls the adventures they had on their first case, the first time he realized that he was fantastically in love with the new life Sherlock had given him. 

“You flirted with me that day,” teased Sherlock, breaking into his thoughts.

John turns pink. “I did not!”

“Oh, please. You did.”

John blushes more and surrenders. “Oh, alright, maybe I did, just a bit.”

Sherlock smiles and opens the bottle of wine, pouring it into the two glasses. They clink their glasses together.

“Here’s to being with you,” whispers John.

“Forever,” whispers Sherlock back. 

They smile at each other and take a sip. 

They take the time to eat their dinner, catching up with each other, making up for three years’ worth of lost conversation. They are sleepy, dreamy, lit only by the soft, sweet candlelight. Long after they finish eating, they stay at the table, their hands find each other, and they stare into each other’s eyes, silent. 

Some things don’t need words.


	10. Tears in the Dark

Sherlock stands, looks at John, who is sitting across the table from him, and without a word leads him to the window. The moon is shining outside, almost full, and they are bathed in gentle moonlight. John gazes up into Sherlock’s eyes and sees the sky and stars reflected in his beautiful green irises. 

It’s the perfect night.

“I love you,” John says softly.

Sherlock doesn’t reply but puts him arm around John, resting his cheek on his head. They are caught up in the moment, warm and sleepy, in love. 

They stand there, watching the moon slowly rise, still locked in their embrace. Sherlock is rubbing absent circles on John’s arm, and John wraps his left arm around Sherlock’s waist. 

John glances at his watch. “It’s almost 11.”

“Want to get some sleep?” Sherlock asks.

“That’d be great.”

They pull apart and begin walking to their bedrooms. At John’s door Sherlock hesitates and lingers in the hall.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock glances at him.

John clears his throat and speaks quietly. “I—I need you. I can’t be alone. Not tonight.”

Sherlock presses a kiss to John’s forehead. “Of course I’ll stay with you.”

He follows John into his bedroom. They climb into bed together, John on his side. Sherlock wraps him arm around him and rests his head against his neck, breathing in John’s smell and feeling his blonde hair brush his nose.

They stay together, neither of them asleep, and after a while Sherlock is aware of John’s body shuddering and realizes he is crying.

He pulls John toward him so that they’re lying face-to-face and looks into his eyes. There is just enough moonlight for Sherlock to see tears on John’s cheeks. 

“I’m here,” whispers Sherlock. He feels fresh waves of guilt wash over him as he realizes that it is his fault John is crying—it was he who caused him so much pain. Sadness overcomes him and tears form in his eyes. 

They cry together, in the dark, resting their foreheads against each other, tears of happiness and sadness mingling. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, John,” cries Sherlock softly, his voice husky with tears. “I’ll never do that to you again, I promise. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

John pulls him close and looks him into the eye. “Hey,” he says gently, “it’s not your fault. I understand. I love you. I love you.”

“I hurt you.”

“You hurt yourself, too.”

They cry together, letting out every single feeling they’ve kept bottled up for three years. John finally lets himself feel the emotions he has   
locked away and hidden. Sherlock feels the fresh, raw pain of having to leave John, let him think that he was dead. 

And when they stop, exhausted, they find each other’s hands and pull each other close and don’t let go.

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

They leave a thousand things unsaid.


	11. Morning & Pancakes

John blinks awake. He looks down and can’t help but smile when he sees Sherlock, asleep, burrowed into him. 

He contemplates snuggling back into Sherlock and going back to sleep, but the sun is already shining through the window, casting its warm glow into the room. John yawns and checks the clock by his bedside table. 7:58. 

He wraps his arms around Sherlock and rests his head against his curls, closing his eyes and breathing in Sherlock’s smell. It’s the first night in three years that he hasn’t dreamt of Sherlock falling. He vaguely remembers dreaming about Sherlock last night, but somehow his dreams are connected to happiness and love, not sorrow and heartbreak. 

Sherlock wakes up and glances up at John, a slight smile on his lips.

“Hey,” whispers John.

“Morning.” Sherlock yawns.

They close their eyes, Sherlock half on top of John, and lie there quietly. 

Sherlock looks at him. “No nightmares?”

“No nightmares,” John confirms. “Just dreams…of you.”

Sherlock reaches up and kisses John’s cheek. “Me, too.”

“You know, Mrs. Hudson was right,” muses Sherlock.

“Hmm?”

“We don’t need two beds.” Sherlock grins up at him, and John laughs, mentally adding his smile to his list of things he loves about Sherlock.

“What do you want to do today?” asks Sherlock.

“Anything,” John whispers. “It doesn’t matter. I have you.”

Sherlock smiles. “I’ve got some friends to surprise.”

“Thank you.” 

Sherlock looks up, confused. John smiles, and explains. “For choosing me first. For giving me the most spectacular day. And night.”

“You’re my…” Sherlock trails off, thinking of words. “Best friend. Colleague. Partner in crime, so to speak. You’re my better half.”

John smiles. “I love you.”

“I’m terrible at this.”

“What?”

“At...being a good person,” whispers Sherlock. “I don’t know what to say, or what to do. I should warn you, I’m probably going to mess this up.”

John hugs him tighter. “No, Sherlock. You’re perfect. Just the way you are. And you won’t mess this up.”

Sherlock sighs. “I don’t know—I’ve never understood love. People say they love food, or they love flowers, or teddy bears, or whatever. What does it   
mean?”

John thinks for a while. “There are thousands of kinds of love, Sherlock,” he says, finally. “This is a love that’s never been seen before. This is our love. Love isn’t something you understand. It’s something you feel.”

“What kind of love is this?”

“A completely platonic, perfect love, Sherlock.”

Sherlock says nothing, a sweet smile on his lips. 

“Hungry?” asks John.

“A bit.” Then Sherlock smiles. “Why don’t you stay in bed, and I’ll make you something special?” he offers. 

John looks at him, askance. “Are you sure—I mean, do you know how to cook?” he asks doubtfully.

Sherlock grins. “You’d be surprised.”

He climbs out of bed and disappears out the door, leaving John alone. 

John reaches over to the bedside table and picks up his phone. He sighs when he sees that his background picture is a picture of him and Mary. It only takes him a few seconds to change the picture to a black background.

He scrolls through his emails, replying to several. He sighs again when he opens an old one, one from Mary. He reads through it again, his heart clenching with guilt when he reads the words I love you. I always will. I promise.

He has to call her today, call her and try to make up for everything he’s ever done to her. He can’t do it in person, although he should. 

Sherlock enters silently in the doorway, holding a tray of food, and is about to speak when he sees the look on John’s face. It’s a look of guilt, a look that Sherlock often wore during those long three years. His face softens in sympathy and he looks warmly at his best friend.

John looks up and brightens when he sees Sherlock and eyes the tray hungrily.

Sherlock hands it to him and John laughs and laughs when he sees what Sherlock has made for him. 

Sherlock made pancakes, which are fluffy and golden brown. But on top of the stack of pancakes, Sherlock has drawn a smiley face with whipped cream colored yellow, no doubt reminiscent of that day long ago when Sherlock decided to decorate the wall with a yellow smiley face with spray paint. On the tray there is also a plate of eggs, and with ketchup Sherlock has written the word “Bored”. 

Sherlock hands him a glass of orange juice and grins at John’s reaction. 

“You’re a fabulous cook, you know,” says John around a mouthful of pancake, pointing his fork at him.

“Don’t point forks at me,” teases Sherlock. “It’s not polite.”

“You’ve got a nerve to talk about polite!” laughs John. “You kept a bloody head in the refrigerator!”

Sherlock pretends to be hurt. “Once, John. Only once,” he chuckles. 

“You eat some,” commands John.

“No, actually, I’m perfectly—” Sherlock looks startled as a forkful of eggs is stuck into his mouth. John giggles as Sherlock makes a face and chews. 

“I’m your doctor. Now eat.” Sherlock surrenders and produces an extra fork. 

Sherlock looks up from eating as John sighs.

“I’ve got to call Mary today,” John says quietly. 

Sherlock nods, his green eyes soft. 

“I don’t know what to say,” John whispers. “I don’t know what to tell her, or how to explain.”

Sherlock nods again, looking a bit uncomfortable. “I wish I could help, John, but I don’t know how.”

John gazes at him with warm blue eyes. “You’re already helping just by being here for me.”

They finish eating and place the tray on the bedside tray. Sherlock pulls John close and holds him tightly.

“I made the right decision, Sherlock, I did, when I chose you. But Mary—she didn’t deserve this.” 

“John.” He looks up at Sherlock. “How much did you care for her?”

“Not as much as I do for you,” whispers John. “But I did love her.” He sighs. “Maybe the only reason I asked her to marry me was because…of you. She reminded me of you, and I didn’t want to let her go.”

Sherlock is quiet for a while. Finally, he says, “What are you going to tell her?”

John exhales. “That I’m sorry. That I wish I didn’t have to hurt her.”

“Will she understand?”

John hesitates. “I hope so.”


	12. Mary

Sherlock watches quietly from the doorway as John sighs and dials Mary’s number. He shakes his head and decides to leave John alone.

He has known for a while that Mary wasn’t entirely faithful to John. Sherlock had deduced by observing her and watching her that she had been romantically involved with another man for some time. Sherlock knew she was equally attentive to him as he was to her because he had often followed them and spied on them before he had revealed himself to John.

One thing that always amazes him is how outstandingly ignorant John is to the bad sides of people; he seems to concentrate only on bringing out the best in others, always ready to forgive and forget. It is something Sherlock does not entirely understand, but he knows that it makes John a good, kind, loyal man.

He has chosen not to tell John about Mary—well, he doesn’t know for sure, but he knows that it is something that John must figure out on his own, or figure out from Mary. Sherlock does not want to be part of any of John’s relationship with her. 

Sherlock sighs and glances in the direction of John’s bedroom, wishing with all his heart he could spare his best friend from the pain and emotional suffering. He grabs his laptop on the way to the living room and turns it on. 

Suddenly an idea dawns on him, and grinning, his eyes excited, he starts looking up things on his computer. He wants to make today special for John, make it something he’ll remember for forever. He wants to make everything up to him. 

But he needs time to plan everything out and execute it. Sherlock frowns, listening as John’s voice filters through the door, pleading with her. 

He can’t leave John, not when he’s like this. If John finishes his call and finds Sherlock gone…it’s unforgivable. 

Sherlock sighs and looks up as John appears in the hallway, a troubled look on his face.

“Sherlock,” he says. “I’ve got to talk to Mary in person. She doesn’t…she doesn’t understand at all.”

Sherlock’s heart breaks a little at John’s tone but nods. “That would probably be for the best, then.”

He stands up and circles his arms around John, holding him close, but on his lips is a touch of a faint smile. This is the chance he needs to plan his surprise for John. 

John pulls out of the embrace and looks at Sherlock. “I love you.”

Sherlock smiles affectionately at him.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” says John.


	13. Surprise

As soon as the door slams behind John, Sherlock springs into action. He only has an hour and a half or so to put his plan to work. 

He needs to pick up a few things, first, though. He grabs his scarf and coat and hurries out the door. 

\--

When John gets back he sees Sherlock curled up on the couch, typing away on his laptop. Sherlock looks up as the door slams and reads in John’s face that his meeting with Mary did not go well.

“What happened?” asks Sherlock quietly.

John runs his fingers through his hair and walks over to Sherlock, who pulls him into a tight hug. “Everything went wrong, Sherlock,” he whispers. “Mary wasn’t mad at me at all. But she told me that…she’s with another man. All this time. And she didn’t tell me. Not even when I proposed to her.”

“She doesn’t deserve you, John,” says Sherlock, holding him close.

“I can’t believe I wasted my time with her. I loved her, Sherlock, I really did.” John’s voice breaks. “I can’t believe she even made me decide   
between the two of you.”

“She loved you too, John,” whispers Sherlock. 

“It’s just—her boyfriend, Mike, knows about me. And he knew I proposed and she said yes. And he was okay with it. So if I had married Mary, she would’ve been sneaking off behind my back.” He gives Sherlock a small smile. “Probably a good idea that you came and rescued me by coming back.”

Sherlock kisses John on his forehead briefly. They lay on the couch for a while, silent.

Finally John asks, “What’s the plan for today?”

Sherlock smiles. “Let’s go out. Take a tour of London. I’ve got things planned.”

John looks at him suspiciously. “You’ve got things planned?” he repeats.

Sherlock grins. “You’ll see.”

John laughs. “Surprise me. But first, you need to surprise a few people. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, for example.”

Sherlock nods. “What’s the best way to do this without making people faint?”

John shrugs. “I’ll go with you. That’s probably for the best, just in case they decide to punch you or something.”

\--

They see Mrs. Hudson first, surprising her in the best way. There are tears, and it must be confessed Sherlock’s eyes do not stay perfectly dry. Mrs. Hudson understands everything, and John has to say that she reacted better than he did.

Fifteen minutes later, both Sherlock and John are headed out the door, full of tea and biscuits. They promised Mrs. Hudson they’d be back later, so they could properly talk. She had insisted that they leave, saying that they needed to spend the day together, winking. 

\--

Lestrade and his team had no idea what was coming. Let’s just say that Anderson ended up with a bloody nose, Sherlock laughed with glee to see Sally’s disgust and horror, and John had to restrain Lestrade from punching Sherlock in the face. 

Scotland Yard was not entirely pleased to see Sherlock Holmes return.


	14. Sherlock's Plan (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't live in London...not even close. So I looked at maps (lots of maps, older maps, all the maps [The Empty Hearse reference, anyone?]) and figured this one out...it was quite fun, actually!! 
> 
> Enjoy! xx

“So, we’ve gotten through all of your hellos. What’s next? You’ve been acting jittery all morning.” John grins in anticipation. 

“A tour of London. Come on.” 

Sherlock strides away and John hurries to catch up. “Where are we going?”

“Queen Mary’s gardens.” 

Sherlock refuses to speak anymore, no matter how many questions John peppers him with. Finally, John gives up and contents himself with the fact that he’ll soon know what Sherlock is being so secretive about.

They walk in silence, pale sunshine shining in the sky. Sherlock turns up his coat collar against the wind and John gazes at him, trying to figure out what his plan is.

Finally they reach their destination and Sherlock guides John into the garden. They stroll leisurely, admiring the flowers, often taking the time to glance at each other affectionately.

They cross a bridge draped in wisteria and stare reflectively at the water. Sherlock reaches for John’s hand and tugs him close. They stay there for a while, gazing into each other’s eyes.

Sherlock leads John to a small fountain in the middle of the park. There are elaborate flowerbeds planted around it in a circular fashion in a colorful display, and the statue on the fountain is made of marble and is weathered with age. Looking closer, John notices that an envelope is wedged in top of the statue, just out of reach of the fountain’s spray, and he is surprised that it has his name written on it.

He glances at Sherlock who is standing a few feet away, his back facing John. John reaches for the envelope, opening it, and finds a cream colored card inside. He pulls it out of the envelope, glancing once more at Sherlock, and reads the words written on the front in Sherlock’s neat handwriting:

_You helped me find my heart._

John opens the card and finds a snapshot. It’s a picture of the first day they met, walking away from the crime scene together. They both look entirely happy and satisfied, lit only by the blue and red lights from the ambulance flashing behind them. In the picture, Sherlock is looking at him with a soft expression on his angular face.

John opens the card again to read the words inside.

_You came into my life and brightened it with your presence. Before I met you, I didn’t understand what emotions were. I thought I was incapable of feeling them. But you showed me what it meant to love and be loved. Together, we are unstoppable. We found each other._

As John reads the card, a smile touches his lips and stays there. John puts the card and snapshot back into the envelope and walks to Sherlock.

Sherlock turns at the sound of John’s footsteps and a hopeful look crosses his face. “Did—did you like it?”

John laughs softly, placing a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “Oh, Sherlock,” he whispers. “I loved it. Thank you.”

Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s forehead and looks into his blue eyes. “I meant every word of that, John. You have made me a better person.”

John looks at him warmly. “You were always a good man, Sherlock.”

Sherlock reaches for his hand. “I remember the first day we met—the first time I saw you. I saw your sorrows and what you had become. And for some reason, I wanted to help fix you. I wanted to give you a new life.”

“We found each other,” whispers John. They look into each other’s eyes and pull apart, resuming their walk around the garden.

“Where to next?” asks John.

Sherlock smiles. “Regent’s Park.”

They grab coffee on the way and enjoy its warmth as they walk to the park. Sherlock guides John to a secluded area of the park and John grins at what he sees.

Under a tree Sherlock has spread a blanket and next to it lays a large paper bag full of food. It’s the perfect spot for a picnic; the sun is shining brighter now, the grass is soft, and there is no one around.

Another white envelope catches John’s attention, tucked into the bark of the tree. John smiles and opens it.

_You are everything to me._

He opens the card.

_You are my compass. You show me the way I should go. I was so lost without you, and often I find myself glancing at you, watching you, and a feeling washes over me. Love. You are perfect. You are my best friend, my everything._

I would have gotten you a compass—you know, sentiment—but realized it wouldn’t be practical. Look in the knothole above you in this tree.

John looks up and sees a small black box sticking out of the tree and reaches up to get it. Opening it, he sees a simple yet elegant black watch with silver detailing. Turning it over, something glints in the sunlight and catches his eye. On the backside of the watch are the words _All My Love –SH._

He turns and sees Sherlock watching him.

“Sherlock. You—you’re too perfect for words. Thank you.”

Sherlock blushes a little and looks away. “Lunch?” he asks.

John grins. “Starved.” 

They lie on the blanket and open the paper bag of food, and John is pleased to find boxes of Chinese takeout.

The smell of the hot food brings back a thousand memories—memories of late nights in the flat, watching telly. This is their comfort food, the food that they’ve shared for ages. 

They lie lazily on the grass, eating takeout, making each other laugh. John watches as Sherlock softens into a person John didn’t think it was possible for him to become. The sun shines through Sherlock’s dark curls, brightening them, and John smiles when he sees that Sherlock’s green eyes are sparkling with happiness.

Eventually, John moves over and lays his head on Sherlock’s chest, looking up at the sky. Sherlock breathes in John’s smell and twines their hands together. 

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm?”

“You’re romantic. Who knew?” John smiles.

Sherlock groans. “I’m supposed to be a sociopath, remember, John. Don’t ruin my reputation.”

“Your fault, Sherlock.”

Sherlock presses a kiss into John’s hair. “I love you.”

They stare at the sky, enjoying the warmth of each other.

“Sherlock, you’ve…changed. You’re a better man, you really are. There are parts of your personality that I didn’t even know existed that you’re finally showing me.”

“Three years can change a person, John. I watched you, and every day I came up with something that I could’ve done better, and I wanted to make it up to you. I’m still the same person. Wait until I get a case and you’ll see.”

John laughs. “Then it’s back to the excitement, gunshots, and moodiness. I’ve missed it.”

“And I’ve missed my blogger.” 

“So, is Moriarty finally gone?” John asks.

Sherlock sighs. “No. I’ve managed to track every one of his confederates except for one. Sebastian Moran. His right hand man.” 

“Are you expecting him to turn up?”

“Yes.”

They are quiet for a while. John sighs.

“What is it?” asks Sherlock.

“It’s just that I keep expecting to wake up and find that this is all a dream,” whispers John. “It’s been so long since I’ve had you in my life, I can’t believe you’re finally here.”

Sherlock’s eyes soften. “Oh, John. I promise you, I’ll stay with you forever.”

“I know.” John sits up. “Do you still have things planned for today?”

Sherlock grins. “Of course I do. But they can wait. I’d rather stay here with you for a little while longer.”

John reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the watch, stroking the smooth metal. It catches the light, flashing, and he turns it over to rub his thumb over the engraving. 

“Sherlock,” John says. “Thank you. This is the best gift in the world.”

Sherlock smiles shyly. “Put it on.”

John does and admires it on his wrist. 

“Sherlock, I have to ask you a question. How public do you want our relationship to be?”

Sherlock sighs. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind making Donovan even more disgusted, and I really wouldn’t mind making Anderson throw up.” 

John grins. “But that isn’t what I’m worrying about,” continues Sherlock. “If I show the world how much I love you, there’s always going to be a high chance of somebody using that against me. Using you against me.”

John exhales. “I know. The question is, do you want to take that risk? Or do you want to hide our feelings every day until we get home?”

Sherlock hums. “I don’t know.” He pauses. “Maybe it doesn’t matter, really. You saw how Moriarty used you against me even when I didn’t know I was in love with you.”

John nods. “True.”

“So maybe we should…just be us. Act naturally.”

John smiles in relief. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”

Sherlock smiles and pulls John close. They stay there for an hour, watching the world pass by. John burrows into Sherlock, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s torso, and they lie there lazily, breathing together. 

Finally Sherlock stands and helps John up. They gather the trash from their lunch and toss it into a nearby trashcan. Sherlock folds up the picnic blanket and tucks it into a pocket of his coat. 

They resume their walk across the park. When the reach the exit, Sherlock hails a cab.

“Trafalgar Square, please,” he says to the cabbie. 

They sit in silence, looking out the window. John feels…more than happy. Happy isn’t sufficient enough a word for what he is feeling. He feels blessed, lucky, content, peaceful. 

Sherlock glances over at John and reaches for his hand. They are both relatively unaccustomed the affectionate gesture, but somehow it feels…right.

When they reach Trafalgar Square, Sherlock pays the cabbie and he and John get out. The square is quiet, the sound of the rushing fountains tranquil. Sherlock leads him to the fountain on the right and by now John knows what to look for. 

He spots the little white envelope leaning against the fountain in front of a small carton of…milk? He looks questioningly at Sherlock, who only grins and motions for him to open the envelope. 

_You take me for who I am._

John opens the card. 

_I am aware that I can be insufferable at some times, to say the least. Yet you stick with me, even when I shoot holes through the wall at 2 AM and when I refuse to do something as small as picking up milk from the store. One thing that amazes me is how loyal you are. You take me as I am and you don’t try to change me._

I am eternally grateful for that and for you.

When John looks up, there are a few stray tears in his eyes. He goes to Sherlock and wraps his arms around him.

“Oh, Sherlock,” murmurs John, sniffling a bit. “I don’t ever want to change you. I promise I never will. I love you just for who you are.”

Sherlock hugs him back and whispers, “I know.”

After a while they pull apart and John pulls a few coins out of his pocket and hands some to Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at him, an adorable confused look on his face. “What’s this for?”

John rolls his eyes. “You throw it into the fountain, silly.”

“What for?”

“You’re supposed to make a wish.”

Sherlock regards him strangely. “What’s the use of that?”

John laughs. “Just do it, Sherlock.”

They both toss their coins into the fountain, which land with a satisfying plink. 

Without knowing it, they had both wished for the same thing.


	15. Sherlock's Plan (Part 2)

“Come on,” says Sherlock, tugging John’s hand. “We’re going to London Bridge next.”

They take a cab and ten minutes later, they pull up to London Bridge. John glances at his new watch. It’s almost 3 o’clock. 

They wander along the bridge, watching the water, and gaze up at the castle-like structures above them. John reaches for Sherlock’s hand and they walk together, in silence. They watch and admire several ships on the water, and halfway across the bridge, they stop, taking the time to relish the beautiful view and each other. 

John laughs suddenly. Sherlock gives him a questioning glance.

“London Bridge is falling down, falling down,” John sings gleefully.

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock giggling.

“London Bridge is falling down, my fair _Sherlock_ ,” continues John.

“John!” gasps Sherlock, dissolving into giggles again. 

They laugh and laugh and hold onto each other. Finally, they gain control of their sanity (did they ever have it?) and continue walking, sober again.

“You should laugh more,” murmurs John. “It’s beautiful.”

Sherlock says nothing but a small smile touches his lips. 

Finally Sherlock leads John to the end of the bridge. On the sidewalk John finds a blue jumper with another white envelope on top of it.

_I was so lost without you._

John closes his eyes briefly, sadness welling up in him, as he realizes how genuine these words are. Sherlock is not one to reveal emotions freely.

He flicks open the card.

_Oh, John. How I missed you these past three years. I was so afraid I would lose you. I was afraid I was too late. I was afraid that I had gone too far. I was afraid you wouldn’t understand._

Every day, when I woke up, I would pray and hope that you wouldn’t forget me. Oftentimes I recalled your stricken face as you realized I was about to jump, and a searing guilt would cross my heart. 

I missed your warm, strong presence. I missed the blueness of your eyes, those deep pools of comforting affection. 

This jumper is the perfect color for you. It brings out the color of your eyes.

“Oh, Sherlock,” says John, his voice hitching. He picks up the sweater and feels how soft it is. Cashmere, probably. He puts it on over his shirt and glances up at Sherlock who gives him a small, gentle smile.

“I missed you so much, John,” whispers Sherlock. “You have no idea how much effort it took me to talk to you that day on the rooftop. You have no idea how much threatening it took for Mycroft to keep me from revealing myself to you too soon.”

“Sherlock.” John’s voice is low and reverent. 

“John,” whispers Sherlock, his voice breaking. “I can’t live without you.”

He looks John into the eyes and finds the ever-present comfort and strength in those beautiful blue eyes. They stand there together, close enough to touch, and lean their foreheads against each other, communicating nonverbally. 

Sherlock places a gentle kiss on John’s forehead and hugs him before pulling away. 

“London Eye,” is all he says. 

John grins up at him and laughs. “Let’s go.”

The sun is already beginning its daily descent from the sky when they pull up in a cab. Sherlock and John get out and walk toward the entrance to the London Eye. It is surprisingly empty and quiet—in fact, no other tourists are here. The man who runs the Ferris wheel winks at Sherlock.

“All set, Mr. Holmes?” he asks.

Sherlock nods and he and John get into the capsule.

“How?” John asks.

Sherlock glances at him briefly and smiles. “Mycroft.”

John laughs. “Of course.”

They stand and gaze at their home, beautiful London, the place they’d most rather be than any other city in the world. The sun is beginning to sink lower and lower, and sunset is soon approaching. The Ferris wheel pauses at the top of the circle and hangs there. John somehow knows that Sherlock managed to instruct the man running the ride to do so. 

It isn’t until Sherlock tugs him to sit down that he sees the envelope, which he knows instinctively is the last one. The others are tucked into his jacket pocket.

As always, his name is written on the front of the envelope in Sherlock’s neat handwriting. But on top of it, there is one single long-stemmed rose, its red tones complementing beautifully with the cream-colored envelope. It’s a surprisingly romantic and sweet gesture, and turning, John sees Sherlock watching him with softened, gentle eyes. 

John picks up the rose and sniffs it, catching traces of Sherlock’s cologne behind the sweet scent of the rose. He places it gently down on the seat and grasps the envelope, opening it and taking out the card.

_I love you._

Those three, simple words touch John’s heart more than anything else. He feels tears welling up because he knows that Sherlock loves him more than anything else in the world—more than his work, more than his family. Sherlock has given him so much, so much to live for, so much to care for. 

Sherlock is watching him quietly, watching how those three small words can have such a strong effect on the kindest person he knows. 

John regains his composure and opens the card.

_John. I love your name, I love you, I love how much you’ve helped me become a better person. I never thought I needed love so much until I met you. You are perfect. You are my heart. You saw into my soul and saw what I needed. And I needed you. Your love, your comfort, your care. I cannot imagine life without you. You are truly special—one of a kind. You are mine. And I am yours. I love you._

John’s vision blurs with sudden tears, his heart melting. He feels Sherlock’s arms wrapping around him from behind.

“It’s not supposed to be sad, you know,” he whispers to John. 

John laughs a little through his tears. “Oh, Sherlock. I’m not sad. I’m happy. Very happy. I love you.”

He turns to face Sherlock and pulls him in for a slow, gentle kiss. It’s their first kiss, really, on the lips. It’s sweet and slow and entirely perfect. He feels Sherlock melt against him and pulls him closer. John closes his eyes, letting Sherlock’s smell wreath over him and sighs happily. Sherlock kisses him once more on the lips and moves back a bit so he can see into John’s eyes and read the happiness there. 

John glances into Sherlock’s eyes and feels his heart flutter as he gazes into those beautiful pools of allurement, those gorgeous sea green eyes flecked with blue. Sherlock’s eyes are the color of the ocean after a storm, a gentle blend of both green and blue with hints of silver. John is locked into Sherlock’s gaze; he can’t look away, and he doesn’t want to. 

Finally Sherlock glances away and looks out into the sunset. The sky is a rosy color, and London is lit in an orangey red glow. The orange sun casts its gentle glow onto the two men, bathing them in warm light as they watch the sky, a perfect canvas swathed in brushstrokes of orange and red and highlighted in yellow and pink. 

The sun is sinking lower and lower, fading into the horizon. Then it winks once and is gone, leaving behind rosy trails of clouds and golden light. 

John hears Sherlock come up behind him and turns his head as he feels Sherlock’s arms wrap around his waist. John closes his eyes and feels Sherlock’s lips brush his own and smiles, enveloped in the warmth of Sherlock’s long coat. 

“You know, I’ve got the best boyfriend in the world,” murmurs John against Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock pulls back a bit and looks startled. “Boyfriend?”

“Oh, yes, Sherlock. Boyfriend.”

“Partner might be a better word,” mentions Sherlock.

“M’kay. Whatever you want to call it.”

“But thank you,” adds Sherlock awkwardly. John only laughs and pulls Sherlock a little closer. 

“You’re adorable, did you know that?” asks John.

Sherlock huffs. “I most certainly am not.” 

John giggles and kisses the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, earning him a pleased smile. 

By now stars have appeared in the sky, and Sherlock turns to John.

“Dinner?”

John smiles shyly. “Sherlock, would you like to go out with me?”

Sherlock laughs. “A date?”

“A date.”

Sherlock grins at him and pulls him in for a quick kiss before saying, “Yes, John.”


End file.
